


Ineffable Bureaucracy

by Red_Velvet_Halo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst, Backstory, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Constipation, Enemies to Lovers, Enemy Lovers, Established Aziraphale/Crowley, Established Relationship, Forbidden Love, Gen, Ineffable Bureaucracy, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Just..just listen, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Beelzebub, Nonbinary Character, Other, Post-Canon, Psychopaths In Love, Rare Pairings, So much angst, This is a good ship okay, Unresolved Emotional Tension, rairpair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-06-02 04:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19433908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Velvet_Halo/pseuds/Red_Velvet_Halo
Summary: “What do you want?” Gabriel asked, though it didn’t sound like the type of question there could be an open answer to. The demon turned to face him, expression steely. Unfazed.“The same thing you do, I reckon. Recalibration. Traitors on the rocks. War back on the go.”The archangel blinked. He hadn’t expected such a straightforward answer.“The traitors are, as they say, ‘a wall.’”“AWOL,” the Prince corrected. “My people are on it. ‘Till then, you got a choice on how you wanna do this. Fly solo, and risk the deficit? Or play it from both sides?”Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Are you offering your help?”“I’m offering you a deal.”“Angels don’t work with demons.”A sardonic smile pulled at the corners of Beelzebub’s mouth. “Or so we thought, eh? Times sure are a-changing.”





	1. Armagedidn't

Pandemonium.

That was the word. Complete and utter pandemonium.

That’s what Hell was right now, and though many are inclined to believe it is always like this, that isn’t quite the case. There’s no eternal fire or constant screams of agony, no one is running around in a panic or crying for help, and there certainly aren’t any buffoons brandishing pitchforks (unless they have a mind to be sent to The Hole).

No, usually the residents of Hell are too downtrodden to do much of anything besides mumble in complaint among themselves. They stumble along the glorified hallway that is the Realm of Darkness without much protest, and only ever put up a fuss with one another, usually more out of boredom than any actual upset. You could say Hell is like a busy DMV or a long line at a sub-par amusement park. Crowded, musty, brimming with feelings of rage and despair that never actually bubble over. It was the exhaustion that was the true punishment. The consistency of nothingness, walking and walking knowing there was nowhere to go and nothing good to come.

Only now, when Hell’s one chance at redemption had been stripped away right at the cuff, all that anger had finally overflowed. The crowd of demons that had taken so long to be lined up for battle were in complete disarray, howling in outrage, projecting their frustration on whoever was the closest. Generals beat their troops with splintered batons, soldiers turned on each other, biting and scratching and tearing at uniforms. Someone had gotten ahold of a flamethrower and was torching anyone in a twenty-foot radius. Before anyone had the time to recuperate from the failed Armageddon, Hell had imploded and became a warzone within itself.

Luckily, the Prince of Hell was safe within their makeshift office, a sectioned-off platform raised above the ground floor where they could watch the chaos unfold. Despite this, Beelzebub did not have to endure any less conflict. Accompanying them was Hastur, Duke of Hell and new top demon ever since Crowley went rogue. Hastur was practically foaming at the mouth, drops of spittle flying as he heaved through gritted teeth.

“Let me down there!” He snarled, his inky black eyes focused on the fight below. Even the toad on his head looked irate, croaking in assent. “I can handle ‘em. I’ll put ‘em into place.”

“Absolutely not,” protested Malphas, the raven-headed Demon of Crossroads. “You’ll only get yourself killed…as killed as the undying can get. Better to wait this thing out and let them disperse.”

“That’d take too long,” Hastur countered. “We should shut this down now before they get any ideas. We kill and torture a few, make an example of them, stop this in its tracks.”

“They’re killing and torturing each other right now! Nothing we can do is going to quench their bloodlust.”

“Well _maybe_ if someone hadn’t gone and botched the war, they wouldn’t have been so wound up in the first place!”

“ **Shut it!** ” Beelzebub barked, cutting them both off. They had been sitting quite idly on the throne since returning from the surface, holding their chin and growling quietly while their subjects bickered solutions. In their frustration they had scratched thin white lines over their jaw, and now tapped them absently as they came to conclusion.

“Crowley,” they said simply, as If that was all the answer necessary.

“What about him?” asked Hastur, embittered by the mere mention of the serpent. After all, it was Crowley who allegedly killed Ligur, seemingly befriended the enemy, and definitely stopped the Apocalypse.

“He’s a traitor, obviously. He caused this whole thing, didn’t he? He has yet to be brought to justice,” said Malphas.

The Prince nodded. “Exactly.” They stood, resetting their drooping sash. A fly materialized from the folds and began circling their head. Beelzebub’s Commander voice wasn’t very drilling, just as flat and disinterested as their typical speech, but it was loud enough that Hastur and Malphas knew these were orders. “Hastur, gather the generals that aren’t making arses of themselves, go get Crowley. Malphas, get Dagon on the loudspeaker. Tell them there’ll be a trial tomorrow, execution hopeful. Only the complicit can watch.”

  
Malphas wrinkled their nose at the arrangement, but Hastur seemed far too pleased to be tasked with Crowley’s apprehension. “Don’t gotta bring ‘im back clean, do I?” The look of morbid glee on his face was nauseating. Beelzebub’s lip twitched up.

  
“Just get him here whole, will ya?”

“No promises.”

And in a snap, he was gone. Beelzebub huffed, turning on their heels and heading off towards the exit. From behind them, Malphas crowed, “Where are you going, then?” The Prince did not grace them with a glance.

  
“To secure us a guillotine. And, if we’re lucky, restart this bloody war.”

***

“We have to kill him,” said Uriel tautly, without restraint.

  
“A bit hasty, isn’t it?” ventured Michael, rubbing her palms together with unease. She had not stopped wringing them since Gabriel returned empty-handed. Despite her position as the “lead” archangel, she was easily flustered when things didn’t go according to plan. “I mean, with the Apocalypse having just been stopped. We still have to reset things here.”

  
Gabriel was pacing, arms folded neatly behind his back. His usually friendly disposition had crumbled and was replaced by a dark, wrathful mask. This was not how things were written out in the Great Plan, he was sure of it. But that little twa-

  
That bast-

  
That _bad angel,_ Aziraphale, had gone and mucked it up for all of them. Disrupted the Almighty’s masterful work. And now he was off in Heaven-doesn’t-know-where with that demon, Crowley, probably relishing in their victory. The thought alone made the archangel’s corporeal form flash hot with rage, but he forced himself to simmer for now.

  
“Uriel is right,” he argued. “Already there have been rumors spreading. Our troops are confused. They’re asking questions.” He said questions in the same tone one might say _vomit_ or _murder_. Michael pressed her hands together firmly.

  
“Even so,” she said, “We cannot simply drop down to Earth and kill him ourselves. If anything, that’d stir up even more suspicion. We can’t have him being martyred.”

  
“Mm, you’re right,” came Gabriel’s reply, along with a wagging of his finger. “We’ll have to be clever. And quick.”

  
“Without getting our hands dirty,” Uriel reminded, although she looked like she wanted nothing more than to play the executioner herself. Gabriel was almost willing to let her.

  
For a while, they all stood in silence, deep in thought over the next course of action. After several moments had passed, Michael took a deep (unnecessary) inhale. “What if-“

  
Whatever suggestion she had, it never made it out for consideration. A stout angel with a mustache, still dressed in combat gear, burst into the hall with a gasp. “Sir--! Gabriel, um, you’re being summoned.”

  
Gabriel’s brows knotted, his lips pushed together. “Who summons anymore? Couldn’t they have sent a text?”

  
The angel shrugged, picking at his mustache. “M’ not sure they send texts in Hell, sir.”

  
There was a beat of silence. “Hell?” Michael chirped quizzically. “Who in Hell-?“ But Gabriel had already gone.

***

Beelzebub stood facing the lake, arms crossed tightly over their chest, eyes staring blankly out over the water. The Lord of the Flies was a ghastly sight to come across in the picturesque St. James park, but demons had a way to avert human gazes if they didn’t want to be seen. Besides the faint smell of grime and sulfur, no one noticed the Prince of Hell doing a summoning ritual in public. Which was convenient, since they were here to talk to an angel about committing a double homicide.

  
The fly atop Beelzebub’s head gave a disgruntled buzz, shimmying a little in place. “I know,” its wearer replied sourly. “You think those wank-wings would be a bit more punctual. That’s the word, innit? Punk-shoo-uhl?”

  
The Prince’s patience—a shock they had any at all--was just starting to run out when the air around them went still. A deep, daytime television-esque voice rang out from behind them, sounding half exasperated half-concerned.

  
“What do you want?” Gabriel asked, though it didn’t sound like the type of question there could be an open answer to. The demon turned to face him, expression steely. Unfazed. They had met earlier in the day, both trying to urge the Antichrist back into his role before the damage was irreversible. Even so, the intensity of the Prince’s ghostly stare was unsettling.

  
“The same thing you do, I reckon. Recalibration. Traitors on the rocks. War back on the go.”

  
The archangel blinked. He hadn’t expected such a straightforward answer.

  
“The traitors are, as they say, ‘a wall.’”

  
“AWOL,” the Prince corrected. “My people are on it. ‘Till then, you got a choice on how you wanna do this. Fly solo, and risk the deficit? Or play it from both sides?”

  
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Are you offering your help?”

  
“I’m offering you a deal.”

  
“Angels don’t work with demons.”

  
A sardonic smile pulled at the corners of Beelzebub’s mouth. “Or so we thought, eh? Times sure are a-changing.”

  
The archangel bristled. Typical Hellspawn. But they had a point. Finding Aziraphale was one thing but killing him without starting a ruckus was another. And who was to say the demon Crowley would not escape their grasp and thwart them again? (How cruelly ironic that the serpent who was meant to be thwarted had become the one who thwarts.) And even if they managed to eliminate those two, there was still the Antichrist who needed repositioning, or else altogether replaced. With all of Heaven’s power, they could only do so much in Hell’s sphere of influence.

  
Beelzebub sensed his thought process, and tipped their chin in the archangel’s direction. “Tell ya wot. I’ll send one of my boys to kill your renegade angel. You give us one-a yours to help with ours. We get rid of the outliers and go from there.”

  
Gabriel found no fault in their logic, which, if anything, made him more suspicious. Evil was never logical. There were always errors in its thinking. Always something overlooked that would become its undoing.

  
“How do I know you’re not trying to trick me?” He asked pointedly, leaning a little further backwards. The demon sneered, showing off a row of sharp yellow teeth. For the first time, their words actually had some energy to them.

  
“Ya don’t. But I’m tellin’ ya like it is. We want the same thing! N’ my people aren’t gonna wait another six thousand years to rip yer bloody throats out!”

  
Gabriel winced. Their words were crude, but correct at the core. The angel troops were restless right now, still aching for the glory that was promised to them. He couldn’t imagine—didn’t even want to imagine—what it must be like in Hell right now. Judging by Beelzebub’s chagrin, it must have been bad. Bad enough to call an angel for help. At that thought, he smiled, earning a weird look from the demon.

  
Yes, this could work out quite splendidly, it seemed. There was no need for natural disasters or thousand-year competitions or ancient prophecies to start the Apocalypse. If anything, those were only side attractions for the main outline of the Great Plan, anyway. When they had two knowledgeable, high-functioning facilities operating together, they could easily make their own Armageddon. And this time, it would be simply cosmopolitan.

  
“I suppose you have a point, don’t you?” Gabriel finally conceded, his smile painfully bright in the evening dim. “How very clever. You have yourself a deal.”

  
Beelzebub exhaled slowly, trying not to look as relieved as they felt. Suddenly, something Malphas had said centuries ago came back to memory. They stuck out their hand. “Shake on it.”

  
Gabriel’s smile waned. “Excuse me?”

  
“You heard me. Shake on the deal.”

  
“Don’t you think that’s a bit unnecessary?”

  
Silence fell. Beelzebub stared, unblinking, at the archangel until he felt uncomfortable in his own body. ‘If looks could discorporate’, he thought. Reluctantly, he grasped the demon’s clammy hand. Pain shot into his palm immediately, causing him to pull back with a jerk.

  
“Ow! What was-?”

  
As he pulled his hand back to inspect it, a little fat fly zipped between his fingertips, landing and nestling comfortably in the demon’s coat pocket. Left behind was a red mark shaped like two closely connected eyes. “Yeah,” Beelzebub droned. “S’not that I don’t trust you, ‘cept…obviously I don’t trust you, so just a precautionary measure.”

  
Gabriel scoffed, aghast. “Oh, I’m the untrustworthy one?!” The Prince shrugged, turning up their palms in a so-so manner.

  
“I mean, yeah. You can tag me too if ye want. Just makin’ sure you don’t step out of your way or turn your back.”

  
Gabriel frowned and made several other little fussy noises of agitation, which Beelzebub refrained from smirking at. With a huff, he extended his hand again, which they raised to take it assuming he would give them a similar mark. To their surprise, he turned his palm upward, and from it formed a centered white light like a tiny star. When it extinguished, the angel held a white and purple butterfly in his hand.

  
Confused, the demon opened their mouth to question, but no sound came out. The butterfly flitted over from its conjurer and, to the Prince’s great shock and dismay, perched ever-so-delicately onto the medal tied around their collar.

  
“There,” said Gabriel, folding his hands together. “Are we done? Good. I’ll uh, be in touch, then.” With a strained smile, he spread his hands on either side, and was gone in a blink.

  
It took a second for Beelzebub to regain their senses. “Tomorrow,” they blurted, breaking their seal of coverage from prying eyes and causing an alarmed passerby to glance over. Their voice lowered. “The trial is tomorrow." There was no response, of course, but the butterfly on their collar flapped its wings gently, one time and then again. The Prince had a feeling the angel had heard after all.


	2. The Backup Plan

The silence was suffocating. Even if none of them had to breathe, a sigh or sniff at least could have helped break through the thick air that pooled in Hell’s courtroom. It was steadily becoming noxious, to the point where Beelzebub’s flies didn’t even want to hang around it. They circled close to the demon’s head, buzzing in a panic, which wasn’t making them feel any better.

Crowley was long gone by now, of course, and the archangel Michael was tentatively collecting her holy water from the execution tub. The blinds had been drawn on the spectators so that they could no longer see inward, but Beelzebub had no doubt that things were probably stirring up outside. And how could they not? The residents of Hell had just witnessed something truly incredible, albeit horrifying. A demon, one of their own, one of their best, bathing in holy water like it was a lavender oil spa (not that any of them had any experience with lavender or spas). The thirty-some demons that had seen this—could it be called a miracle? Was such a thing even allowed?—would obviously be shaken to the bone. And though the Prince of Hell would not admit it, not even to themself, so were they.

Their face was pensive as they leaned forward on the judge’s throne, eyes wide but unseeing, hands scratching absently at the built-up gunk on their jaw. They didn’t understand. How? How could this have happened? The image of Crowley flicking that poison so casually against the window played over and over again in their head, becoming more ominous with each remembrance.

The whole thing was incredibly difficult to process, especially in such a stifling environment. The tension was so heavy it felt like a wet, mildew-stained bath towel had been tossed over them all. Michael didn’t even say anything, just stood there, looking at the Prince expectantly. When there came no response, the archangel simply disappeared into thin air. Beelzebub realized with a start that everyone else was still looking at them, mixed expressions on their faces. Hastur, for one, was practically shaking with rage, making the toad on his head wobble.

“You let him go! You let him off SCOTT FREE!” He bellowed, so shrilly that Dagon took a step back. Beelzebub shot him a glare, their eyes flashing with menace. If anyone on the outside were to hear him, there’d be literal hell to pay.

“He’s not scott-free,” they hissed. “He’s just untouchable, for now.”

“Untouchable?” Hastur repeated with a hiccup. “Do you know what he did?!”

The Prince resisted the urge to roll their eyes. “Uh, I just sat through a whole fockin’ trial talkin’ about it, s’ yeah-“

“He killed Ligur!” The Duke interrupted.

“I know,” said the Prince, mouth twisting. They really weren't in the mood to hear Hastur lament over his dead boyfriend for the hundredth time.

“Murdered ‘im! With the enemy’s own Holy weapon! He’s a worm among demons, he’s practically one-a those halo’ed psychopaths, taking out wunnuv 'is own like that!”

Hovering awkwardly by the door, Dagon murmured, “You literally just killed Spike like, two minutes ago?” Hastur pretended not to hear this.

“I know!” Beelzebub snarled, rising from their chair. “And we’ll deal with him eventually. Fer now, he’s not a threat to us. We need to move on to top priority. Get back upstairs and moving on the Antichrist.”

The command took the Duke by surprise. He blinked several times, mouth falling open slightly. “Wot?”

“The Antichrist, Hastur,” the Prince said slowly, cocking their head as if talking to a misbehaved child—particularly one that was moments away from being strangled. “He needzzz to be reinstated. That’s your job. So go.”

Hastur made a choked off noise that might have been a complaint if Beelzebub had let him get it out. **“NOW!”** They snapped, their voice warping into a thunderous growl that reverberated off the walls, stirring up a gust of air that swept the Duke’s tie back into his awestruck face. He didn’t stand a chance and knew it.

He murmured a bitter “yessir” and headed out through the exit, leaving only Dagon in the chambers. Carefully, the Lord of the Files approached Beelzebub.

“Sir?” she (at least, currently a she) asked. “Are you sure we should leave Crowley unattended? He stopped us once, he could try it again.”

The Prince of Hell hmphed. “Not without ‘izz angel, he won’t. N’ that’s bein’ taken care of now. All we gotta do is work around him.” The words came out much cleaner and more confident than Beelzebub felt, but that was a necessary skill for a leader to have. They didn’t know what Crowley had become or what he was capable of, but they could burn that bridge when and if they came to it. They had to focus on what was more important until then.

So as long as Heaven held up their end of the bargain.

The thought hit Beelzebub like a brick to the face. If Crowley had become immune to Holy Water, Satan knows what could have become of the angel, Aziraphale. Killing the angel was paramount to crippling Crowley’s resolve now that it was proven he could not be eradicated. Heaven _had_ to succeed in destroying him.

“You go, too,” the Prince told Dagon sharply. “Shut thoze witnezzez up. Make sure nothing that happened here gets out to the general public.” The demon gave a single nod and padded away, mumbling something about being ‘bloody crowd control.’ The moment she had left, Beelzebub glanced down.

The purple butterfly Gabriel had planted still sat motionless on their collar. Beelzebub jabbed it roughly, causing it to stir. “Oi! Pomp-feathers! You hearin’ dis? I need a word with you.” For a second there was no response, but then came a voice that sounded like it was coming from inside their own head, though it certainly wasn’t their thoughts. It was a man’s voice, deep and impatient. 

“What is it?” Gabriel’s disembodied answer echoed behind their eyes. The Prince suppressed a shudder of discomfort. The butterfly must have been linked to the archangel’s extrasensory abilities somehow. Weird.

“You said yer Holy Water would do the trick! But I just watched Crowley splash around in the damn tub like a minnow and waltzzz out of here neat as a Satan-damned pin!”

There was a pause, and Gabriel could be heard sucking his teeth like they were talking face-to-face. “Well then. That is uh…that is not good.” A knot of dread coiled in the demon’s stomach. He sounded as though he knew something they did not.

“And on your end? The hellfire worked, di’n’t it?!”

Another pause. “No,” said Gabriel. “He survived. More than that, actually. I think your guy had more of an impact on Aziraphale than we had anticipated.”

Beelzebub was dumbfounded. “Then you killed him right, didn’t you? Struck him down the old-fashioned way?” _By Satan’s hoof, let that bastard be dead._

“Of course not. How can you kill an angel that’s immune to hellfire?” He sounded defensive, but it was stretched over a layer of discontent equal to Beelzebub’s.

“So you just let him go then? You right pillock!”

“Excuse me, you allowed Crowley to go free, as well, so don’t spin this on me” Gabriel pointed out testily. “Besides, he said that if we agreed to leave him on Earth, he wouldn’t cause any trouble for us. We expect to hold him to it.”

The demon bristled. That sounded awfully similar to what Crowley had said. Perhaps the rumors were true. That Crowley and that angel were…well… Beelzebub didn’t want to think about it. It was too disgusting.

“Then I suppozze we go on to the backup plan,” they muttered darkly.

Gabriel hummed, making the butterfly’s wings vibrate against the collar's clasp. “Mmh. I suppose we do.”

Neither of them was happy about the arrangement, but they had both agreed that the best way to keep outside forces from interfering with the Plan was to pretend it didn’t even exist. Let everyone believe that the Apocalypse was truly over and that Heaven and Hell alike were stumped, even if that extended to the resident angels and demons. After all, it was the responsibility of the higher authorities to keep things running smoothly in their facilities, have all their ducks in line and ready to go but only when needed. And right now, just a select few workers were necessary to kickstart their mission.

Beelzebub tapped the butterfly again to turn it off. It was unclear whether it actually worked that way, but Gabriel always seemed to shut up afterwards. The demon’s mark did not have the same convenience; it simply activated whenever the marked individual was emitting treacherous feelings. It was very useful for making sure high-ranking officers and Earth-bound demons remained loyal to the Dark Lord, and there were many recent occasions where Beelzebub had kicked themselves for not marking Crowley. But there was nothing they could do about it now. There were other demons they had to corral for the moment.

The Prince strode from the courtroom with purpose, approaching the balcony that oversaw Hell’s “lobby.” The demons that weren’t permitted to attend the trial had crowded outside the observatory, pushing desperately to see or hear something worthwhile. As expected, announcing the trial had brought the fighting to a momentary halt. (Nothing brought a demonic congregation together like the spectacle of public punishment.) But when the attendants had come out less-than-entertained, the crowd had grown restless, trying to squeeze in closer and find out what had happened. Dagon was doing her best to push them back and keep the original witnesses from fanning out to tell their tales, but she was far outnumbered and practically trampled over in the hoard.

Beelzebub snorted at the scene. If this next announcement didn’t incapacitate these demons once and for all, nothing would.

“Demons!” the Prince addressed in an echoing voice which stalled the bustling. The Hellspawn looked up at their leader with beady, unblinking eyes. “As of today, the forces of the Apocalypse are in complete remission. The dynamics of Heaven and Hell have been thrown off-course, and the state of the battle ground is dangerously fragile. By order of the Executive Council of Hell, all prospective demonic activity is suspended indefinitely.”

A ripple of surprise went through the crowd, with some voices raising in protest.

“You’re laying us off?!” one grey-skinned demon flakked.

“So no war?” cawed another.

“What’re we s’posed ta do, then?!” a third whined from atop the shoulders of a larger figure. 

Beelzebub pinched the bridge of their nose. Few of these plebeians deserved a response, but even Dagon was looking at them incredulous and almost offended. They shot her a special look that said, _not you._

“Workers stationed on the surface will be given new assignments. Those already assigned to jobs down here are expected to continue them. The rest of you…” The Prince blinked, looking up as they searched for words. An empty chasm stared down on them, providing no answers. There was a kind of silent judgment in that darkness. It was oppressive. Taunting. The symbol of a life without light, for creatures once beautiful and radiant, now stripped to nothing but violence and shadows and the smell of fear. A life that, little to the knowledge of these pitiful fiends, would soon be re-illuminated. Reclaimed.

Beelzebub squared their shoulders and offered their subjects a stiff shrug. “Just bugger off somewhere.”

***

The sound of Michael’s pacing was beginning to grate on Gabriel’s ears, but he was far too diplomatic to mention it.

All of Heaven’s forces had just been put on temporary leave and told they weren’t supposed to be back to work in a few days. This left Heaven with ample time to set the stage for the kickstarting Armageddon 2.0. Unfortunately, ever since Gabriel had recounted his story to the archangels, management had been frazzled.

All were in support of restarting the Apocalypse, of course. There was no one more excited to jump into battle than Sandalphon, who’d cheerfully shared his plans for turning demons into heaping lumps of sand that would blow right back into the faces of oncoming fleets. But even he had grimaced when Gabriel explained the deal he’d struck with the Beelzebub, warning him that no possible good could come from consorting with such lowly beings, even well-established ones like the Prince of Hell.

Still, the angels had allowed the Prince’s agent into their holy home, expecting that the demons’ crude weapon would be perfect for the efficient, non-incriminating execution they had in mind. But the Hellfire had failed, and they’d had no choice but to set Aziraphale loose. The Guard of Eden was no longer part of their breed. He could no longer be trusted, nor could he be killed. 

The failed execution had also brought Gabriel’s plans into question. Not everyone believed that it was Aziraphale’s metamorphosis that had nulled the Hellfire. Some maintained that Heaven’s new so-called accomplice had cheated them for some ulterior motive. Why demons would go through all the trouble of fraternizing with angels just to get their hands on a substance that could kill them with a single drop was beyond Gabriel. Nevertheless, he still had to reassure his coworkers that the deal had been legit and had simply gone awry. Otherwise he might lose his influential position among them, and be branded a fool, or worse, a traitor like Aziraphale.

His hands were folded across his knees as he sat in a conference room of sorts, having been magicked into a chair while the rest of the archangels interrogated him. Michael was walking in nervous circles, occasionally asking questions that Gabriel could not quite answer.

“If not to trick us, then what is Beelzebub’s intent offering a partnership with Heaven?”

Gabriel shrugged. “To ensure that the Apocalypse is done right, I suppose. They need us to be ready on our end, or else there isn’t any point to reinstating the Antichrist,” he offered, but his peers did not look any more persuaded. Uriel stabbed her spear into the floor, curling her lip at him.

“Or they’re getting our guard down, thinkin’ that if they act friendly, they can get their grubby claws in our business. N’ once we’ve cozied up to the idea of partnership, they’ll wait until we’ve turned our backs, and then… _bam-!_ ” She stabbed the floor again with a sharp _thwak_ , “-they’ll go in for the kill!”

Sandalphon nodded sagely in her direction. “Yes, that sounds right on brand. That’s what demons do.”

Gabriel was a little miffed that Sandalphon was taking a stance against him. He'd thought they were becoming something like friends during preparations for the End Times. “If that were the case, I think I would have been able to detect their malintent. Furthermore, if the Prince of Hell was so keen on ambushing us, why would they mark me with a spell that detects betrayal?” He turned out his opposite hand, showing the archangels the two red ovals burned into the palm. Uriel’s eyebrows unknitted slightly.

“That…is fair,” Sandalphon conceded, averting his eyes.

Michael remained unconvinced, fixing Gabriel with a hard expression. “I’m still not sure. We need more evidence. Proof that their intentions are truly as they say, and nothing more.”

“I’ll get them to prove it, then,” Gabriel said before he could stop the words, but he did not regret it. Regret was for humans. His perceived lack of insecurity would at least bring comfort to Heaven’s leaders; let them know he was confident in his decisions and could be trusted to do his job.

The archangel stood, adjusting his tie. “I shall contact Beelzebub and have them prove their adherence to the deal. Should they fail to comply, the arrangement is off.” He flashed a winning smile for emphasis.

“And you’ll take responsibility for wasting Heaven’s time and resources,” Uriel added gravely, her gaze scorching. Gabriel sucked in air through his teeth.

“I-, yes. Of course, I will take full responsibility.”

Regret is for humans, he reminded himself. Regret is cowardice.

Michael steepled her hands, looking satisfied. “Excellent! You are to resolve this matter as quickly as possible. Until then, we’ll handle affairs restarting Armageddon. This meeting is officially adjourned. Tip-top!”

One by one the archangels filed out of the hall, Sandalphon bringing up the rear. He leaned in and muttered an insincere sounding “good luck” before shuffling away, leaving Gabriel standing alone in the conference room.

His shoulders deflated the moment they disappeared. The severity of the challenge was starting to dawn on him. A demon’s loyalty to their own superiors was questionable, especially in this day and age, and (like angels, arguably) they were very proud creatures. One didn’t simply approach a demon and request they sanctify their maker with promises. Exaltation was more of an angelic thing, and swearing by troth was out of the question, as a demon’s troth was worth as much as bird droppings.

For worse, his mission was not to get the Prince of Hell to confirm devotion to Lucifer, as that would have been too feasible. He had to get Beelzebub to swear loyalty to Heaven, for which he might as well have gotten Uriel to sing a Satanic hymn. Had he not been so shamelessly stubborn, Gabriel might have admitted he had taken on an impossible task.

How does one get a demon to declare their faith in a heavenly bond?

The archangel caught himself mid-thought. That was just it! His instructions were to confirm Beelzebub’s loyalty, but it was never said they had to declare it aloud. Loyalty could be proven through actions. It could be shown, which would be much more effective than words. A thin smile stretched across Gabriel’s face.

Channeling his power, he extended his mind to the mark he’d given Beelzebub, connecting with them through the butterfly attached to their collar. His message echoed in his mind, contacting the demon almost telepathically.

“Hello, Lord of Flies. I would like to propose a meeting…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to update, this chapter is mostly filler so it was difficult to write.  
> Next chapter will be much better, and hopefully out sooner


	3. Feel the Burn

“What…kind of ‘meeting’, izz this?” Beelzebub asked slowly, completely bewildered by what they were seeing.

  
Clad in grey sweatpants and pristine white sneakers, the archangel Gabriel did a series of warm-up stretches in front of them. He’d spent the last few minutes twisting his torso and pulling his legs against his back while the demon watched uncomfortably. Somehow, he seemed completely oblivious (or else willfully ignorant) of their disgruntled expression.

  
“I told you,” he said between toe touches, “It’s an assessment…of your preparation…to engage in combat…with Heaven’s elite forces.” He stood upright, shaking out his arms and trotting in place a little. When he finally stilled, his smile was pulled ear to ear. “You and I are going to work out.”

  
The Prince’s nose crinkled. “Work out?”

  
“Yes!” Gabriel beamed. “You know, exercise.

”  
Beelzebub took an abrupt step back. “You can’t exorcize me.”

  
The angel snorted a short, ingenuine laugh, placing a hand over his chest. “Not like that. Physical exercises, to strengthen the body and the mind. Fitness is important for an upcoming war. You want to make sure you’re ready for whatever the enemy throws at you.” He punched Beelzebub’s shoulder in a manner that was meant to be playful, but it was too hard a hit to illicit any positive feelings. The demon looked at him as if he’d started spitting up slugs, their mouth agape. He couldn’t be serious.

  
“Let me get this straight. You called me here, in the middle of a human park, two days after the Apocalypse, to-, to-, work out with you?”

  
His smile did not falter in the slightest, which was even more agitating. “Yes. If we’re going to be working together, I’ve gotta make sure you’re as invested in this as I am. As Heaven is, really.” Perhaps unconsciously, Gabriel bent his knees so his face was more level with the demon’s. “To be frank, I don’t want to be stuck with an adversary who doesn’t live up to the prophecy.” There was a hint of provocation in his voice; a kind of condescension in his grin that let Beelzebub know he was contesting them. Cheeky bastard.

  
Their lip twitched up, showing a sliver of teeth. They examined Gabriel’s loose-fitting sweatshirt and soft-soled shoes, then peered down at their own rumpled suit and high heeled boots. They were wearing fishnet socks, for Satan’s sake!

  
“Yeah, I get that, but uh...I don’t think I’m really dressed for sum’n like this, so…” They tried to offer a tight smile that would say, _sorry, love to, but I can’t_. Unfortunately, any attempt at a smile always turned into a sort of sneer for them, so the message was lost. Gabriel just gave that restless sigh he had and flicked his wrist. Beelzebub’s suit was transformed into a black tracksuit with red and white lines stitched up the sides. Their heels went flat in place of a pair of running shoes with squishy bottoms, knocking them down another inch.

  
The demon blanched. “What the fu-!?”

  
Gabriel clapped his hands and brushed past them without so much as a glance back. “Let’s go!” he cried, “Around the lake. The goal is six minutes. Try to keep up!” He took off at a run, heading down the sidewalk.

  
Beelzebub blinked several times, still gawking. What was happening right now? This had to be a fever dream of sorts. Only, Hellspawn did not sleep, and therefor did not dream.

  
A test, then. The archangel was challenging them to prove they weren’t weak. This wasn’t about fitness at all, Beelzebub realized. This was about showing that the forces of Hell could go toe-to-toe with Heaven’s army in more than just petty human manipulation. He was demanding evidence that Hell had the right to be known as the Adversary.

  
The prince huffed open-mouthed, almost amused. It was kind of clever, in an annoying way.

  
If this was how he wanted to play, then the game was certainly on. The Prince had not come here to make a mockery of Hell; they would meet his challenges head on and crush him at his own pathetic trials. Although, by the time they came to this realization, Gabriel was ten meters away and counting. Beelzebub was already behind.

  
“Shit,” they hissed, and with a new air of determination jogged after the angel as fast as their short limbs would carry them.

  
By the time the pair had circled around the entire lake, Beelzebub was feeling nigh discorporated from exhaustion. Damn the human vessel and its earthly limitations like fatigue and the need for oxygen. A shoddy design error in the demon’s opinion, which made life in a body terribly inconvenient. And being out of practice with a body made for poor execution of otherwise simple tasks. At least, that’s what they told themself coming in twenty-one seconds after Gabriel had reached the starting point, doubled over and clutching their knees.

  
The archangel had scarcely broken a sweat. He was breathing, and rather heavily, yet his smile was as radiant and stomach-turning as ever. “Not bad,” he said, but his tone oozed smugness. Beelzebub glared at him through disheveled strands of hair, snarling.

  
“You ain’t won. I’m just not used to doing thiz much with thizz body.”

  
“Well that means you’re unfit,” Gabriel said pointedly, doing that stupid crouching thing again so his face was uncomfortably close. Did this idiot have no sense of personal space? “We’ll just have to work on that, then, yes?”

  
Beelzebub grit their teeth, straightening up just enough to deliver a sharp kick to the angel’s shin.

  
“Ow!”

  
He went stumbling, hopping a little while the Prince swept past him. “Whatever. What’s your next task, Pomp-Feathers?”

  
For the first time, Gabriel’s overbearingly affable performance was cracked. He was grimacing, his eyebrows furrowed. The disdain in his face was simply delectable.

  
“Sit-ups,” He grumbled, and marched forward to reclaim his place in front of the demon.

Admittedly, Beelzebub felt stupid: laying on their back on the hard concrete, crunched up like a pillbug, with the archangel Gabriel standing over them and drilling with all the integrity of a divorced alcoholic yoga instructor.

  
‘You’ve got to lift your upper back completely off the ground! Use your core!”

  
“My core is pure malice!” they grunted with as much animosity as they could manage with such intense pressure squishing their lungs.

  
“Your middle part!” Gabriel insisted, directing to his abdominal region. He’d not only given instructions but had demonstrated how to do a proper sit-up; he didn’t understand what was so confusing about it.

  
Beelzebub grumbled low in their throat, trying once more to push themselves off the ground. Rather than hold the back of their head, they clutched the fly perched on top so it did not slide off or be bumped on the way down. This made distribution of force unbalanced, but the Prince managed to get their shoulders and a small portion of the shoulder blades up before thudding back on the concrete. “Eugh!”

  
Gabriel pinched his nose, exasperated. “Can’t you let that thing go? You’re never going to sit up all the way while holding onto it like that.”

  
“Shut up!” snapped Beelzebub, but subtly adjusted their hold to support the abdomen of the insect instead. On this try, they did manage to sit up, only…

  
“Put your legs down,” Gabriel scolded, looking Heavenward to avoid seeing the odd half-folded position the demon had ended up in.

  
Heat crept up their neck. Abashed, they stuck their feet back on the ground and tried again. Despite every effort, as soon as their lower back rose, so did their legs, sticking up in the air in almost pin-up fashion. Beelzebub tried to put more force into keeping their feet planted, but the softness of the running shoes provided absolutely no traction. By the fourth try, their neck was inflamed, and the burn of shame and embarrassment was far outweighing any muscle tension.

  
The archangel sighed with resignation. “Here, let me—”

  
He knelt, grabbing onto Beelzebub’s feet and holding them down firmly.

  
Startled, the demon wrenched out of his grasp and kicked him in the chin with a shout.

  
“Augh! Holy hymns, I’m trying to help!” Gabriel fell back, holding his face and looking oddly betrayed as well as angry. It took him several deep, hissing breaths to recover from his frustration. “If you have an anchor you can center your movement. So let’s get this over with, _shall we?_ ”

  
While this had been his idea, and a brilliant one at the time, the angel was very much regretting it. He had not anticipated the Prince of Hell to be so burdensome, though he really shouldn’t have expected more from a filthy, wretched demon, no matter the rank. If this was actually a test of their formidability, Beelzebub would be receiving a solid _I_ , for Incompetent.

  
Fortunately, all he had to do to secure his argument with Heaven was get the Prince through this workout, thus proving their dedication to cooperation and willingness to follow directions. Well, maybe not so much on the latter, but they’d get there.

  
Beelzebub swallowed, averting their eyes and trying to look indifferent. The redness in their face gave them away, of course, but it was worth a shot. Slowly, they aligned their legs and allowed Gabriel to weigh them down. It was perturbing in the weirdest possible way, but better than floundering around like a beetle stuck on its back.

  
Once again, they lay flat down and tried to push back up, and to their surprise succeeded. The urge to straighten out was still there, but stifled under Gabriel’s hold. They dropped again and rose a second time. And then a third. _Oh._

  
“You see, it’s easy,” chirped the angel.

  
Beelzebub was getting into a rhythm now, pangs of pain shooting through their upper body. But demons were accustomed to pain, so they powered through it, inhaling sharply through their nose. They weren’t counting, just focusing on the pattern of movement with no real end goal in mind. Up, down, up, down, up…

  
“That’s thirty!” Gabriel announced, a slight glint of pride sparking in his eyes. “Well done. Usually I’d make you do three sets, but that’s not necessary in this case.”

  
“Why not?” questioned the demon. “Isn’t this about fitness, or whatever?”

  
Gabriel shifted a bit, recognizing how this position put their faces unusually close (closer than he had been, even when crouching to talk to them). Fresh from hell, a demon’s sulfuric musk wasn’t exactly rose-like. “Yes, but like you said, you’re not used to physical activity. It’s best to ease into a regimen.”

  
Beelzebub crossed their arms, their jaw set stubbornly. “I can do it.”

  
“Oh, I’m sure. With me holding you down, you could probably do a lot.”

  
The Prince’s eyes widened, their nostrils flaring. They aimed to kick him again. He scooted away hastily, releasing his grip and holding his hands up in a stop motion. “What?” he fretted in earnest, the implications of the words completely lost on him.

  
Beelzebub blinked. Dear Satan, angels were stupid. Their neck burned again, but one couldn’t punish the ignorant with dignity.

  
“Whatever,” they muttered, clambering to a stand. “What’s next?”

  
“Push-ups,” said Gabriel, not following suit. “Your final trial.” He flipped into a plank position and began the exercise, arms locked in tightly and head set straight forward.

  
The Prince was hit by a wave of nostalgia. “Awh! I can do that, easy,” they said, relaxed by the declaration of this task. Right after the fall when Lucifer was taking out his anger on the Fallen, he’d forced them to do this sort of thing a lot. To lay in the mud and push themselves back out, only to be struck down again with the blunt end of his sword. Whoever withstood the torment was approved as a suitable royal for Hell’s infernal kingdom. This was how Beelzebub had earned their crown.

  
They dropped down beside the angel, shoulders rolling, face set with confidence. “How many?”

  
“As many as you can.”

  
The demon’s steely eyes flashed with the kind of mischief that made an angel’s ‘middle part’ hurt. “Alright.”

  
Gabriel got to about forty-something push-ups before he began to feel real strain on his body, but because Beelzebub seemed rather nonchalant, he persevered. Around ninety, he had to employ tiny amounts of celestial strength to keep going. At one hundred and twenty-one, he glanced over to see the still-undaunted Prince effortlessly push up at almost double the speed. Jolted, he botched the come-down on #122 and fell flat on his chest.

  
“Alright,” he relinquished, trying not to wheeze. “You’ve proven your point. You can stop now.”

  
Beelzebub didn’t even slow down, enjoying this far too much. “You sure? Wouldn’t wanna fall short of your precious expectations now.”

  
“I said you’ve made your point. You passed. Heaven will be most appeased.” With a small groan, Gabriel stood and wiped the dirt from his sweatpants, annoyed at having been shown up but overall incredibly relieved to have this task over with. He was certain the demon would feel the same way, but for some reason when he looked at them again, they appeared to be angry.

  
Standing just above shoulder-height to the archangel (without the giant bug), Beelzebub wasn’t very physically intimidating, but something in the way they scowled and glared with such hostility made Gabriel feel very cautious all of a sudden.

  
“I didn’t do this to appeazzze Heaven,” they buzzed through clenched teeth. “I _did_ it to teach you fancy-feathered bastards not to underestimate us.” They took one step forward, balling their fists. “You think you’ve got this whole thing in the bag, don't you? That war with yer Great Adversary is just a little game you can breezzze your way through, ‘cause you’re up there and we’re down there?! Huh?!”

  
Gabriel couldn’t even makeshift a response, attempting to remain perfectly still while the Prince of Hell seethed in his face. The sound of vicious buzzing arose with every decibel the demon’s voice raised. They were hissing hot into his neck now, blowing sour breath up to his eyes. “Well! I’ll let you in on a secret, Pomp-puss. When this place comes crashing down, and we’re out there on that battlefield, it’s not gonna be a game. We will _eviscerate_ you. We will tear you apart bit by bit. We will flay you until your matter is so destroyed it won’t even dissolve into the inky reserves of the universe. You’ll just be…gone. And not even the Almighty could save you.”

  
Gabriel’s corporeal form boiled with Heavenly wrath. He could have smited the loathsome creature where they stood; summoned a waterfall of the holiest water and melt the Lord of the Flies down into a puddle of putrid bubbling goop. But the opportunity would come soon enough, he thought. Until then, this alliance had to remain intact. The fate of everything depended on it.

  
With great struggle, as if speaking through a block of ice in his throat, Gabriel said, “Thank you, for your…cooperation.”

  
Beelzebub smiled; a mangled, twisted smile that would probably haunt a human’s nightmares for years. They punched his shoulder, hard. “Yeah. Good workout. We should do it again sometime.”

  
“I’ll pass,” the angel deadpanned.

  
The Prince shrugged, far too casual. With God to thank, they finally backed off of him, stepping backwards and slowly away. “Your loss.”

  
And like that, they were gone.

  
Gabriel could not repress a shudder after they’d left. Perhaps it was true that he’d underestimated the sheer vigor with which Hell wanted to destroy Heaven. It was foretold that the battle would be long and bloody, with many lives lost on each side. Briefly, he reflected on Beelzebub’s claim that celestial makeup could be vaporized into oblivion, so that even the Almighty could not restore it. He quickly dismissed this. Nothing could limit God--All-Powerful Creator, the Omnipotent and Omnipresent--certainly not the powers of Hellspawn. And certainly, even if Hell had more going for them than they thought, Heaven would still win. It was inevitable, as forewritten in the Great Plan. Good always wins. Though they may be battered and denied and sometimes forgotten, the forces of Good were made to be victorious.

  
Consoled by these thoughts, the archangel smiled contently to himself as he prepared to go home, and smiled wider when he realized Beelzebub had returned to Hell still wearing the tracksuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by @crazy_toma777 on Instagram!


	4. A Change of Plans

As a general rule, Evil never slept.

  
It was ever-present, vigilant, prepared to pounce on any opportunity to spread malice and wickedness. It could linger for decades undetected as it clung to the shadows like a caiman in murky waters. The moment a curious fish swims too close to its hungry maw, Evil will strike without hesitation or mercy. This is the nature of demons.

  
Or so it has been said, at least. At this time, one demon was not feeling as particularly predatory as he should have been. It was difficult to lurk in a place like Tadfield, which was unbearably homey and crawling with friendly, cheerful residents who wanted to ask how your new job was working out and share a casserole with you. It made Hastur’s skin itch. He’d lurked in nice neighborhoods before, certainly, but never one like this. A well-loved environment such as Tadfield could be smothering for a demon, and already the Duke of Hell could feel his throat constricting.

  
Had his partner, Ligur, been here, this mission would have been more tolerable. Still unpleasant, obviously, but unpleasantness diluted when it was shared between two people. The late Duke had also been a much more accomplished lurker than Hastur; he had perfected the art, really. Had it down to a methodology. With Ligur by his side, Hastur always felt proper menacing.

  
The demon forced his mind to be clear of these thoughts. He’d been doing well not thinking of Ligur since the trial, but on occasions such as these, it was inevitable. It was unfamiliar to him, doing these sorts of things alone, but he would get used to it. As unfortunate as it was to lose a valuable agent of Hell, it was Hastur’s responsibility as Top Demon to pick up the slack. To lurk twice as hard, if necessary. That was the mindset he had leaving Hell to seek out the Antichrist.  
But now as he stood in the driveway of the Young family home, he could feel slimy fingers of dread drag up his back. The house looked so ordinary; just as modestly cozy as the rest of the picturesque village. There were crème-colored curtains hung in the front windows, warm light spilling out through the cracks where a sliver of the kitchen could be seen. The porch was swept clean and decorated with two plush wicker chairs, each with its own novelty cushion. Wind chimes tinkled softly in the breeze.

  
No son of Satan could live here, thought Hastur as he slunk up to the side of the house. Then again, if this is where the boy had been all this time, it was no wonder that he’d muffed up the Apocalypse. One should never send a suburbite to do grease work.

  
The demon peered over the windowsill into the room he had gauged was the boy’s. The curtains were pulled back just enough for him to make out the basics of the space, which seemed normal enough. There was a bed, naturally, and a little dog bed beside it that certainly wouldn’t fit a hellhound. Model airplanes dangled from the ceiling, and there was a small bookshelf stocked with fairytales and adventure novels. A boy’s room, through and through, but not an Antichrist’s.  
Hastur squinted. The lights were out, it was past dinnertime, so where was the child? Even his parents had begun preparing for bed, if the spotless kitchen and snuffed living room lamps were any indication. Perhaps he was in the bathroom. The demon grimaced, inching further over the sill.

  
“Who are you?”

  
A mild voice startled him out of his musings, and he wheeled around prepared to strike.

  
Adam Young, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness, stood with his arms folded and a frown while he took his dog out to pee. The hound, which looked much smaller since the last time Hastur had seen it, snuffled in the grass by his feet.

  
He was a very normal-looking child, with a plain blue T-shirt and dirty sneakers and pockets stuffed full of rocks and jacks. He hadn’t any horns or hooves, his eyes were a shining but unassuming blue, not red like fire or even black like Hastur’s own. He was like any other 11-year-old, except for the sheer all-dominating power radiating from his words like invisible smoke. To a human’s perception, Adam would be inconspicuous, but a Duke of Hell could tell when he was in the presence of the son of Satan. Despite his casual demeanor, Hastur knew this was not another Warlock situation; this kid was the real deal.

  
“Who are you?” Adam repeated; his lips pressed tightly together. He didn’t appear to be concerned, moreso inconvenienced by the demon lurking in his yard with world-ending intentions. “What are you doing at my house?”

  
The demon straightened up. “I am Hastur…” He didn’t think adding on his pseudo-surname was necessary in this case. Not that he had any room for extra commentary before Adam interjected again.

  
“You’re a demon, then?” That pinprick of annoyance seeped into his voice again. Dog wandered several paces, slowly creeping on the new person with curiosity. The demon wondered if this was actually the same dog he’d sent out mere weeks ago, or if it had somehow been replaced by a worthless runty one at a point during its journey.

  
“I am the Duke of Hell,” he announced gravely, puffing out his chest with pride. He refused to be intimidated by a child, no matter their rank. “I’ve come to reinstate you.”

  
Adam looked unimpressed. “Wussat mean?”

  
“A Duke? I’ss like uh-“

  
“Re-im-state,” Adam corrected, not even really looking at Hastur, as he was focused on his pet. If Dog didn’t find a place to go quickly, his parents would come calling for him and accuse him of loitering. Whether or not the demon was still there when they did come was quite irrelevant to him. He had already made up his mind about that Apocalypse business. He had no intention of getting involved with Heaven or Hell; not with school starting back up soon, anyway. The Them had also made it clear they would no longer hang out with him if he ever tried to take over the world again. “I’m not gonna start the end of the world, you know,” he said pointedly. “I said no.”

  
Hastur sneered. “It ain’t a choice, boy. It’s yer job. It’s destiny.”

  
“Destiny shmestiny,” Adam fired back. Hastur gawped, mortified.

  
“It’s not ‘shmestiny,’” he growled. “It’s the fate of this world and the next! And it’s your responsibility whether you like it or not, you insolent brat!”

  
At his feet, there was a throaty groan of agitation. Dog had shuffled up to the demon to investigate, and when Hastur raised his voice to the loyal pet’s master, the hound had come in for defense. With one swooping movement he hiked his leg and peed on Hastur’s shoe, making him stumble back in a start. Adam’s lips twitched upwards.

  
“I don’t think it’s up ta you to decide my responsibilities, thanks. I’ve got plenty, between chores, school, n’ looking after Dog.” He knelt down to pat the hound as it trotted merrily back to his side, looking rather self-satisfied. When he faced Hastur again, the demon could not suppress a shudder at the chilled, calculating look in Adam’s gaze that did not match up with the innocence of his smile. His eyes glittered with the kind of coy mischief painted on the faces of satyrs and sprites of the classic world. The porch light leaking ‘round the corner of the house backlit his curls like a flaming halo. There was something in his face that revealed inklings of his transcendental nature, but the Duke was shaken to find that, in this moment, in this light, he could not pinpoint whether Adam felt more occult or celestial. Mythical or supernatural. Demonic or Godly.

  
The boy plucked a rock from his pocket and turned it over in his hands. “But you know, if it really is my job to decide the fate of the world…I don’t want to have some stupid war. Everything always ends in a war. I want it to be fun!”

  
“F—f _fun?!_ ” Hastur spluttered, hardly able to pronounce the word.

  
“Yeah! I don’t really feel like it now, but if I do think something up, it’s going to be much better than a war.”

  
_“If?”_

  
“If I run out of ideas.” Adam nodded as if he’d already begun considering it. Hastur realized he was losing control. It knocked him off balance several degrees to the right. He’d never mishandled a job like this before. Then again, he’d never encountered something like Adam before, either.  
Scrambling for the last tendrils of command he could, he fixed the child with an authoritative glare, letting the evil seep from his form just enough to look horrendous.

“Listen here, boy. No matter what you do, what stalls and distractions you create, you will lead Armageddon. You will be the destruction of this world. That’s what’s written in the Great Plan.”

  
Adam’s smile pulled taut to one side. He squeezed the rock in his fist like he was crushing the globe between his fingers. His confidence seemed to flutter, and for one fleeting beat Hastur thought he had him. But the boy only shrugged, pocketing the stone once more.

  
“Then I guess I’ll have to come up with a new Great Plan.”

  
There was a second where everything seemed still, and when it had passed, the air felt new. Something deep and unknown stirred in Hastur’s bones like a hive of bees beginning to swarm. He could barely get out the “what?” that wrangled its way up his suddenly tight throat.

  
“I think it’s time for you to go now,” said Adam.

  
“Wha-”

  
Hastur tried to contest, lunging forward with his fingers outstretched. Whatever the boy was going to do, or Satan forbid if he’d already done it, the Duke could not let it pass. But Hastur had no say in the matter, Adam decided. He held up one hand in a stopping motion, concentrated his brow, and had a thought.  
The demon disappeared.

  
Dog panted below, wagging his tail expectantly.

  
“Right,” Adam stated. “Let’s go.”

  
He led Dog back into the house and closed the door behind him. The porch light flickered off.

***

  
Beelzebub tapped their chin absently, half-listening to the chatter of the court. Whenever meetings became too much, they would slip into a mental blank space and simply wait for something important to be said. This was all the better, for demons rarely had anything important to say, and so the Prince rarely had to hear it.

  
When Hastur had returned unsuccessful in obtaining the Antichrist, the Dark Council had gotten into a heated debate on how to preserve Hell’s power without riling the troops.Mammon, Demon of Greed, had suggested an increase in soul collecting but was given an unfriendly reminder that Earth activities had been stopped for the moment and it would be suspicious to reboot so soon. Besides, the last thing they needed was more crowds to control when their hold was already so fragile.

  
“Well, obviously this Antichrist is a dud. Why don’t we make a new one~?” crooned Asmodeus, the crown Demon of Lust. They were a tall, vivacious figure currently occupying a body with sleek onyx hair and cherry red lipstick that stained their teeth. It was said that Asmodeus was the only attractive demon left after the Fall, but if one looked closely they could see the swollen cracks in their skin and smell the rot in their breath that no mint could mask completely. They were also a Prince in the same rank as Beelzebub, although they did absolutely nothing to contribute to Hell’s executive order other than sit around and blather about unsavory topics. The only service Asmodeus had ever done was spurring the creation of Adam Young in a long, complicated process that had involved lots of interviewing, pep talking, instructional video marathoning, and one very disturbing candlelit dinner.

  
Dagon scoffed, incredulous. “Certainly you’re joking! It took centuries to get everything in order for this one! I know they say ‘third time’s the charm’ and all, but we don’t really have room for another failure.”

  
The Council members suddenly went stiff, shuffling awkwardly. The beat of silence that followed was torturous. They had all sworn not discuss the First One. Dagon cleared her throat, eyes shifting. “A-at any rate, after this recent blow, I’m not so sure our Dark Lord is in the mood for, you know… Antichrist-making.”

  
Asmodeus sniffed haughtily, as if they couldn’t believe anyone would turn down a good Antichrist-making session. Nevertheless, they backed down.

  
“What about our partners in Heaven?” said Malphas, startling Beelzebub out of their stupor.

  
Dagon wrinkled her nose. “’Partners’ is a generous term. What about them?”

"Partners is an accurate term,” the Lord of Crossroads dissented airily, but pressed on. “I’ve been thinking; if we’re supposed to be working with Heaven to ensure the Apocalypse, there must be some way we can use their power to our advantage.”

  
“Preferably without involving a thirty-day core and leg workout regimen,” piped Asmodeus with a cheeky grin towards Beelzebub, who snarled in response. They had not yet lived down the embarrassment of coming home in Gabriel’s blasted tracksuit, and the other princes showed no signs of letting up anytime soon.

  
“How d’you reckon?” they asked, not sure what Malphas was on about. The raven-headed demon folded his hands, stepping forward.

  
“Well, we all know what resources Heaven has at their disposal. They may not be able to prompt Adam themselves, but they have the power to influence him into becoming more complicit, and provide him with ulterior motives to rule the world besides love of destruction—which he hasn’t really got, has he? According to Hastur, he’s more interested in _creating_.” He angled his feathered head at the superiors as if trying to communicate some hidden message. No one took stock in it, and looking slightly disappointed, the demon continued his sermon.

  
“Just, Heaven can cultivate that better than Hell, obviously... What I’m saying is that we should cash in on this new connection to the Top Angels while it’s still fresh and functional. Utilize their helping nature while they remain convinced of our loyalty. Keep our enemies close until we can make Heaven’s power our own.” Again, his beady black eyes focused on Beelzebub, shining with a subdued but potent waywardness. Suddenly, everything clicked in the Prince’s mind, and their mouth parted into an “o.” They locked gazes, and had Malphas a mouth instead of a beak, he might have had a sinister smirk.

  
At the back leaned against the wall, the demon of sloth, Belphagor, groaned. Belphagor was a round, flat-faced, male-ish creature who seemed more ape than man (which gave Malphas a run for their money in the “worst/best anthropomorphic beast demon” category). He wore a dingy, moth-eaten robe that dragged along the floor and sported a beard so wild and tangled that all you could see of his mouth was the shaking mass of hair when he spoke. His eyes were swollen shut under the sags of what must have been his brow bone—assuming he had bones at all—yet he seemed to look at Malphas with confusion.

  
“I don’t get it,” he blubbered, which was one of the four or five phrases he ever bothered to say.

  
“Of course you don’t,” snapped Asmodeus, but then turned to Malphas with the same lost expression. “Wait, I don’t get it either.”

  
Dagon smacked her forehead with an open palm. “He’s means dupe Heaven into doing things for us but pretend it’s for the sake of the Apocalypse! Satan’s hoof…”

The Dark Council “aah”d collectively, nodding. Beelzebub stood from their chair, finally invested in this meeting. In an almost mechanical fashion, they dished out delegations one by one.

  
“That’s what we’ll do then. With that in mind, Dagon, you’ll be taking over finding things we can loop Heaven into doing. Belphagor will take your place in crowd control. Hastur will be put on standby while we investigate further into Adam Young. And Asmodeus…”

  
The Prince pointed at their painted coworker, who batted their eyelashes with a disgusting little pout. Beelzebub glowered.

  
“Fuck off, Asmodeus.”

  
The Lord of Lust grinned, flitting away. “Don’t mind if I do~!”

  
The meeting adjourned, and each demon went on their way to begin their dastardly deeds. The Lord of the Flies retired to their office, deep in thought. One hand raised to their pocket, where they’d stored Gabriel’s butterfly to keep it from listening in on the conference. What Dagon had said was not the entire truth behind Malphas’s proposal. This wasn’t just about petty favors. This was about Gabriel.

  
Beelzebub knew getting the Antichrist back was a slim chance, even if they insisted that Hell keep pursuing it. Without Adam, they would need a powerhouse on their side. One that could both incite violence between Heaven and Hell while also giving the demons the leg up they needed to meet the angels’s brawn. And what better way to jump start the Apocalypse than obtain the angel whose horn would signal its start? What was more rousing than turning one of Heaven’s best leaders and taking him for their own? If Lucifer had taught them anything, it was that nothing said “Holy War” like making an archangel fall.

  
And the foundation was already set. Gabriel had put his confidence in Beelzebub, and believed he had theirs in return. All there was left was to find his weak spot, the capacity for darkness that the Prince knew lied within every creature, regardless of what the Almighty claimed. God had made them all imperfect, angels and demons alike. Only one group had been a little too loud about it, and had been thrown into the pits as a result.

  
Turning pompous, perfectionist Gabriel would be a grueling task, but it was one Beelzebub knew they had to undergo, for Hell’s sake. In a way, it was kind of noble. But noble in an evil way, of course (they could not think of a word for this). And it could be done, they were sure of it, remembering the Principality Aziraphale and the look in his eyes as he threatened Crowley. If there was poison in him, there was poison in all of them. All it took to procure was time, pressure, and a bad influence.

  
With a heavy sigh, they slid the butterfly out of their pocket, and tapped it awake.

  
“Gabriel…let’s have a meeting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bad at time management, whoops, but I managed to get this out  
> A few notes: I'm unsure of how I did writing Adam, so feedback on his characterization is appreciated. I decided to make Malphas male-presenting in this chapter to avoid confusion with all the pronoun swapping during the meeting. The characters Asmodeus, Belphagor, and Mammon are non-canon but all princes of hell according to the lore, so I added them as parts of the Dark Council. The mention of a previous Antichrist is also noncanon, but because the book lists Adam as "an Antichrist" instead of "the Antichrist," I thought it was interesting  
> Thank you all so much for the kudos and lovely comments, they truly make my day (even if I'm awkward and don't know how to respond to them) and I really do appreciate it


	5. Bees and Bells

_Everything was new._

_The Earth hardly existed, and the sky had only just been finished. For now, Earth was a wavering mass of rock coated in floating water, with only one round blob of land on which the Garden was to be built. But before Eden came to be, the planet would have to be made habitable. The Archangels were still perfecting the recipe for planets, as all those which had been made before were either too cold or swelteringly hot, and could sustain life about as well as a million degree acidic volcano in the middle of the desert (or as well as a studio apartment in New York City)._

_When the angels had begun their work on the universe, it was a free-for-all. The gracious Almighty had given them plenty of artistic freedom designing galaxies and solar systems (some, perhaps, had too much, as things had gotten a little out-of-hand on the Jupiter project. That massive swirling hurricane in the center showed no signs of slowing, but at least now they knew not to mix so heavy-handedly). But Earth was different. God wanted this planet to be perfect, with warmth and light, with clear water and lush green forests, and a bright beautiful place to house Her most treasured creation._

_This meant the Archangels had to multiply their efforts tenfold helping the Almighty prepare for this legendary formation. Teams were formed and tasks delegated, and there were strict regulations put in place for each of them. Even one mistake in the plan could have devastating consequences, and while Angels were made to be brilliant, only God was flawless._

_There were no breaks, and only vague instructions were given. Had the distinction between day and night been consistent at this time, the days would be described as long and taxing, and the nights as restless._

_It was enough work to wear even an ethereal being of pure energy down into a sputtering antique lightbulb, but Gabriel took it all in stride with a smile on his face._

_He was a fundamental part of the planet-building squadron. The full name he had been gifted was the Archangel Gabriel, the Messenger and Horn-Bearer, alongside an ornate ivory instrument that shone like the invention Rafael had called “stars.” Admittedly, he had no idea how to use the horn or even its function, nor did he know what messages he was meant to relay, but he was eternally thankful for any prize the Almighty would bestow upon him. That is why he never complained about the tasks he was given, no matter how exhausting they were._

_If he was commanded to work on a steaming mass of rock until it was a fully functioning planet without any rest or guidance, he would do so merrily. If he were then told to destroy that planet and gather the pieces into a rather unattractive string of ragged debris, his response would be instantaneous and without guilt. Gabriel trusted God. He knew that it was all a part of the Great Plan which the Almighty spoke of so fondly, and so he was fond of it too._

_Still, preparing to launch the Great Plan was tiresome, especially after God had suddenly decided that more than one cluster of galaxies was needed and that a couple hundred thousand would suffice instead. No angel could argue with this, not that they ever would. Yet they were not creatures of expendable effort, despite what the books may say._

_Whenever Gabriel needed time for recuperation, he’d politely excuse himself from his group and go to the place he knew would boost his morale. This was among the Virtues._

_The Virtues were a choir dedicated to the little things. Although they had played an important role in the creation of planets, they now spent most of their time coming up with new designs for elements and nature. Most of the time, they circled the clouds looking down on the Earth’s single landmass, building and testing the creations they’d come up with. At times, Gabriel liked to visit among them and mark their progress. He had even contributed to their roster of Animalia with ideas of his own._

_The Virtues were productive and patient beings, and a joy to be around at any given time, but it wasn’t just their innovative success that drove Gabriel towards them. There was also Hermesiel._

_She was arguably the most prolific of the Virtues, already having more than five hundred independent species patented that were entirely her own creation. Admittedly, most of them were small and unusual, some with an unnerving number of eyes and legs that struck the angels as a sort of offensive parody of themselves. She also had a habit of giving her creatures sharp teeth and claws, including the one time she had invented a plant that was capable of trapping and ingesting other animals. This had not gone over well with the other designers, but like all the rest before it the piece was approved and shipped out._

_Hermesiel was not exactly popular among angels, but Gabriel adored her. She had a gentle face and a sleepy disposition, with waves of auburn hair that fell across her brow. When God had introduced the blueprint for humanity, she’d encouraged the angels to take on a man-like form of their own. Hermesiel had chosen a small, ivory-colored form with crystalline blue eyes and a curved body. The Creator had called this form “woman,” but to the angels, “woman” was just a word and “she” was just a name. Hermesiel was not the type to argue labels outside of the animal kingdom._

_Still, seeing her form was instantly comforting for the Archangel Gabriel. He considered her a friend above all others. Sure, he fraternized with his colleagues and loved them as brothers—as was expected of him—but Hermesiel was special, in a category of her own. She had no dependence on him, and so no expectations to fulfill. She could offer him insight to his tasks that no one else would have thought about, albeit usually delivered in a rather impolite manner._

_“Why don’t you just heat it up and then shape it? That’s so much easier than trying to carve the rock while it’s hardened.” Gabriel had looked sheepish._

_“I hadn’t thought of that. We’ve just been leaving them bumpy…” he admitted, and she’d scoffed in an affectionate and exasperated way._

_“Idiot.”_

_When the stress of planning the galaxy became overbearing, Gabriel would settle on the edge of the clouds with the Virtue and they’d talk of simple things: leaves and oxygen atoms, bugs and stones, rivers and meadows, wind and sunlight, and the other wonderful little things that brought planet Earth together. He remembered every conversation they’d ever had overlooking Pangaea. He remembered her tight smile and busy hands, the dullness of her voice that always lightened when she spoke of her creatures. He remembered her dry, coarse sense of humor and tendency to call him stupid, though he doubted she really meant it. She was not nice, but the softness in her eyes when she looked at him was too deep for her to hate him. Besides, hate had not been invented yet._

_He remembered her crafting, too. There was something inspiring about watching her creative process that helped Gabriel think clearly when he was thrown by the complications of the universe. And the best part was that he didn’t have to worry about making mistakes, for he knew she would not care. In fact, she listened to his ideas (even the ones that weren’t so good). She loved his paradoxical logic and set a personal goal to make even the most convoluted of his suggestions into reality._

_One day she had approached him with a wicked grin, more wired than he had ever seen her. Her wings twitched with excitement as she tugged at the back of his robes for attention. “Gabriel! I thought about what you said, about insects that eat plants they cannot reach. I think I’ve got it settled!”_

_Gabriel’s mouth had opened to explain that he wasn’t really insisting she make something like that, and was if anything advising against it, but he shut it again. He knew better than to deny her a challenge._

_Practically buzzing with the force of her own giddiness, Hermesiel produced a little round Thing in her palm and beamed. Gabriel tried awkwardly to mirror the smile._

_“…what is it?”_

_The Virtue huffed, blowing out her cheeks. “It’s a bee, dummy. An insect with wings!”_

_His brow furrowed as he peered in closer to examine it. The bee was a fat, fuzzy bead with six spindly limbs and a striped coat. A single spine protruded from its back, but thankfully it was the only spiky thing she’d added. It made a strange sound and bore two thin clear wings that beat just enough to lift it from Hermesiel’s palm. Frankly, it looked far too large to be held up by such fragile-looking extremities, but it seemed to hover just fine._

_Gabriel’s mouth pulled to one side. “I’m not sure giving bugs wings is a good idea, Hermesiel. Birds, maybe, but insects…they are meant for the ground.”_

_Hermesiel rolled her eyes and brought a hand to her temple. “Eugh! You think in the lines too much, Gabe!” He instinctively frowned at the nickname, which had been assigned to him some time ago despite his vigorous rejection of it. Now he begrudgingly tolerated it from Hermesiel alone, and if any other angel even thought about trying it out, they would suddenly find themselves on cleanup duty in the gaseous clusters._

_“Look,” her voice softened into that airy inspiring tone. “These creatures are meant for whatever we want them to be. We have the power to give them any purpose, great or small, and every opportunity to fulfill it. Or not fulfill it. To conform or be distinct; whatever the situation calls for. They are not bound by the invisible rules of expectation. They aren’t trapped… like we are.”_

_Her eyes looked glassy. She was looking past him into the ether, at some picture he could not see nor understand._

_Gabriel’s voice came out quiet, concerned. “What do you mean? We are not trapped.”_

_The bee buzzed in Hermesiel’s hand, and she snapped like a whip back into clarity. “Nothing. It’s nothing,” she said hurriedly. A new topic was quickly forced. ‘I’m just saying, if you think my bee is so inadequate, make your own winged bug. I’ll bet you can’t!”_

_The Archangel’s mouth fell into an “o.” He wasn’t used to having his criticism contested. And he had never made an animal before; that wasn’t his department._

_“Wha--well, it’s just--,that thing is disproportionate, is all! Only by the grace of God is it flying. If a creature must fly, it should have wings that will work in harmony with its body.”_

_His companion tch’d. “Okay, then what are you thinking,_ genius _?” Somehow she managed to make ‘genius’ sound just as insulting as ‘idiot’._

_“I’m thinking…bigger wings, centered body. More like us, I suppose.”_

_“Okay. Make it.”_

_Gabriel’s face scrunched with frustration. “I don’t know how! That’s not in my job description!”_

_Hermesiel sighed. “I’ll show you.”_

_She cupped the bee in her hand and blew on it gently, sending it off with a fussy little buzz down to Earth (all her creatures were fussy, Gabriel noted. Perhaps it was an inherited trait). Then she took his hands in her own small, soft ones and upturned his palms atop hers. He felt a strange compulsion to shiver. Her hands were cold._

_“Envision what you want it to look like. Everything you need to build with is already inside you, you just need to concentrate on it and put it together. I’ll help you.” Her voice was flat, but patient._

_Gabriel reached into the uncharted cave of his mind, which was more a swirling nebula of otherworldly, incomprehensible concepts than a fleshy human brain. Inside was everything that had ever existed: molecules of gas that was used to form the planets, soft grains of dirt, shifting hues of every color the Archangels had painted the sky with, the bright light of Her grace, the pointed tip of Michael’s spear, the tiny veins of the first tree’s leaves, the warmth and comfort of God’s immeasurable love, and an inky black matter that he did not know the name of. All this and more whirred around in his consciousness, sorted by Hermesiel’s guidance. It didn’t feel weird to have her in his head. She knew the ingredients he needed and picked them out with care._

_“Now bring them together. Think of their purpose. Bring it to life. And most of all, love it.”_

_Gabriel knew what the purpose was. It was the principle on which all things are built. The greatest good that can be achieved. This creature was for God; for Her glory and Her joy. To be a part of Her Great Plan, no matter how insignificant the role. Though the angel did not know how to love something that didn’t exist yet, he loved God. And he loved Hermesiel. That was all that was necessary._

_Pressure condensed in the center of his palm, glowing a solid shapeless light. It took longer than it would have for a Virtue, but after a moment the blaze began to take shape. Tall triangular wings rose up from a slender sectioned body, which sprouted a bulb head and two antennae. The creature was soft and delicate, embedded with the colors of the galaxy Gabriel had favored most during the Creation. When everything dimmed, the world’s first butterfly was perched comfortably in the crook between his fingers, slowly flapping its purple-blue wings._

_An enormous grin stretched across Gabriel’s face, and he laughed loud and melodic. Even Hermesiel looked pleased, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. The butterfly picked up speed and flitted right off the Archangel’s hand, eagerly zig-zagging through the air to absorb its new surroundings. The design was sound; the insect was light enough to float through the air, but powerful enough to skillfully direct its motion. Gabriel’s expression turned smug, and he tilted his chin up at the Virtue with a self-satisfied nod. Hermesiel scoffed again, but her smile did not waver. She extended her hand and the insect landed on her fingertips as light as the breeze’s kiss._

_“Not bad,” she hummed. “But I still like mine better.”_

*** 

Gabriel did not know when he’d fallen asleep. He didn’t even know he _was_ asleep until he woke up, and the feeling of grogginess that comes with insufficient slumber was already washing over his human form. But that seemed so impossible. He’d never slept before, as he thought it was a waste of time. Not that there isn’t plenty of time to spare when one is immortal, but to Gabriel, any minute spent loitering could be infinitely more useful spent improving. He had not taken a single break in five thousand years.

Curiously enough, however, he found himself sleeping upright at his desk, head balanced on his hands with his eyes closed and his body breathing, unbiddenly, in even strokes. He quickly put a stop to that, and then realized with a start that there was a butterfly sitting on the end of his nose.

The insect was unbothered by the angel’s sudden dismay, and when he flapped his hand to shoo it off, it withdrew and fluttered past almost lazily and disappeared. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognized the creature’s velvety purple color with speckles of white like far off stars, but his conscious suppressed it.

Disturbed and slightly agitated by the feeling of being tired, Gabriel rubbed at his face and squeezed his eyes shut tight. Visions of ancient images and forgotten words flashed in the darkness behind his eyelids, and when he opened them again, the violet irises of his vessel glowed faintly. Had he been dreaming? Was it even possible for angels to dream? He doubted it. But why would his mind make up random situations for him to experience? Unless, of course, he’d already experienced them…

The things he’d seen were not a dream, but a memory resurfacing from long ago, buried under the wreckage of the War.

An abrupt pain tore through his chest like a knife dragged through the ribcage. The angel clutched where his heart would be and doubled over, making a strangled sound. The agonizing sting burned through his upper body like wildfire, rising to his head and bringing pangs of thronging pressure on all sides of his skull. He heaved, hoping the brisk air might cool down the boiling ooze that bubbled in his throat. It only made things worse.

Remembering hurt. Everyone knew that. That’s why in Hell the demons had shed their God-given names and erased all signs of their celestial origins. Many had nothing, not even an inkling of an idea about what life was like before the Fall. The only things preserved were the anger, the bitterness, and the knowledge that whatever had been done to them would be avenged, some day.

In Heaven, it was practically illegal to speak of the Fallen. If you said the name of an angel who was no longer present among them, no one could understand what you were saying—or at least, they pretended not to. Angels entombed their memories of the War deep within the unreachable corners of their being. They didn’t like remembering the parts of themselves that had been violent and cruel. They didn’t want to admit that they had struck down their brethren and slaughtered them without mercy. Even those who were proud of that legacy kept all the gory details under lock and key.

It was so much easier to forget everything. The information was useless anyway. What was done was done, and it was for the greater good. There was no point in fussing over the past when the glorious future still had to be cultivated. There was no excuse for these visions to haunt Gabriel. This pain could not be justified.

By the time it subsided, he felt close to discorporating. It would not have helped, as the pain was in his celestial matter not his physical body. But it had left a dull headache that he wanted to miracle away, yet couldn’t bring himself to waste the magic on.

Hermesiel. He had not thought of her in millennia. He could not place the last time he’d seen her before the War, but when he had forgotten her name afterwards, he knew she must have been a part of the Fallen. Better to leave it that way. He didn’t know if he could stomach the image of his best friend openly betraying him, taking up arms against his brothers. The concept alone provided ample discomfort.

Hermesiel.

Hermesiel.

The name tumbled in his mind over and over again. Why had he remembered? Nobody remembered unless they really wanted to. To his knowledge there was no way to force it, but sometimes human brains could be provoked into thinking things without meaning to. Memories could be drudged up by basic details like smells and the tune of a song. Prompted recollection.

Gabriel cursed the human mind. With mortal bodies came mortal flaws, and brains were the trickiest of all. His was not even working properly, as he’d had absolutely nothing to cue his sudden unpleasant walk (more like a stumbling limp) down memory lane. Perhaps the failed Armageddon had triggered something, but that seemed a far-flung possibility.

He wracked his brain for several minutes trying to place what had caused this turn of events, but every time the whisper of an answer tickled his ears, it was snatched up again by the void. Gabriel did not give up easily, but this felt plain stupid. He had better things to do than sit around trying to force himself to remember things he had worked so hard to forget in the first place.

Sighing deeply, he pinched the bridge of his nose. One final effort, and then he would relent.

What had happened in the last six months that reminded him of Hermesiel? Was it the bees in the park that drank nectar from rose bushes while he jogged? Was it the glistening helmets of angel sergeants lined up for war, or the smoking train of the Horsemen’s bikes? Was it the calm, composed defiance of Adam Young? Was it—

_Bzz!_

Gabriel flinched coming out of his thoughts, glancing around looking for the bee.

_Bzz!_

Wait a minute. Why would there be an unauthorized insect in Heaven?

_Bzzz! Bzzz!_

At last, the angel glanced down. His mobile phone was rattling on the desk, notifying him of a call. Oh.

Heaven was quite fond of technology, and Gabriel had made it a priority to pop down to Earth every now and again to get the latest iPhone model and spruce it up with some Heavenly touches. He often found humans dirty and dim-witted creatures, but that Steve Jobs was very impressive for his species.

He swiped the phone’s screen with a glowing fingertip, the angelic equivalent of a fingerprint password, and read the caller ID. _6-6-6._ Eugh.

Rubbing his throbbing temples, Gabriel answered the phone in the middle of the voice mail message and heard a rather crass-sounding Beelzebub cursing him on the other line.

“Hell-OH?! Come in, you fancy-feathered piece of sh-!”

“Hello, Lord Beelzebub,” the archangel chirped with strained cheer. He tried to sound like he wasn’t in a sour mood with a terrible headache, but bitterness seeped into his tone anyway.

The startled buzz and verbal recalibration of the Prince of Hell was a comfort, though.

“Uhk. Um. Hullo…Gabriel. I’d like to uh, propozzze a meeting.”

“On what terms?”

“Mmm. Antichrist fetching went south. Er, but not this far south, I mean. We didn’t get him.”

Gabriel felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “What happened? Did stalking and threatening the boy not work out?”

“Shut it. We need to restrategizzze. Council thinks your lot can be of service.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can,” the angel cooed. “If you’re actually willing to listen.”

“I’m open to your suggestions, Gabriel. S’long as they ain’t shit. Anything you think up, we can pull it off.”

There was a sharp twinge in Gabriel’s temple and he winced through his smile. Something vague and familiar stirred in the back of his mind, like the tinkling of a bell in a faraway room. And just like that, it was gone.

“Happy to hear it. I can meet with you Wednesday,” he muttered, suddenly very much wanting to be off the phone. And yet, part of him thought prolonging the conversation might be…insightful. He simply didn’t have the energy.

“Wednesday, then,” Beelzebub agreed. “The usual place.” That felt weird to both of them, having a ‘usual place.’ That was something that should not be. The awkwardness was felt through the phone line. Gabriel cleared his throat.

“Right. I shall see you then.”

“Right...”

“Right.”

The line went dead, and everything was quiet. Usually quiet was peaceful, but not this time.

Wednesday. That gave Gabriel two days alone with his thoughts. Two days that he should be using to plan alternative solutions for Adam Young, but he knew it would take a back seat to this new Thing that had so rudely interrupted his squeaky clean, by-the-book, masterfully organized operation. 48 hours was a blink to an angel, but when that time was riddled with the sound of that little tinkling bell…

Gabriel glanced down at his phone again. It was hyper-advanced, thin and clear and efficient. After staring at it for quite some time, he turned his ringer on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took forever  
> Ya'll already know wtfs going on

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction in years so here's to hoping it's decent.  
> The ship name "ineffable bureaucracy" was coined, I believe, by instagram users @flowerygarrland and/or @weedcorndog, whose lovely art inspired this fanfic, so go check them out!


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